Ten Minutes
by WriteToLive
Summary: Jack's on assignment, years after Day 4. One chapter only.


Ten Minutes

He checked his PDA. All clear, just like he'd been told it would be. He sometimes wondered if he even needed to bother with such details as checking equipment or even simply opening his eyes and looking around – the Intel was always perfect. They wanted him to succeed every time after all, no shoddy recon work would get in the way of his target. There wasn't much he actually had to do himself, just turn up really.

He scaled the fence easily and dropped silently onto the lush green grass on the other side, only it was black on this moonless night. He had ninety seconds to get into position before the next patrol – piece of cake. His designated cover was only fifty yards away and no one was looking this way. He checked around him anyway – but no, they were right, of course. All clear.

He ducked over and ran, making no sound. It took mere seconds to reach his destination. He got into position, set up his one piece of equipment and sat down to wait. A quick check of the watch – right on schedule. Ten minutes to go and nothing to do but wait.

So this was it. His last job. Maybe ever, if he believed what they'd told him. But that was part of the problem wasn't it? He wasn't sure he did believe them. And no matter what they said, this wasn't just another job. This was the biggest assignment of all…and one he still didn't know if he could do. He only had minutes to figure it out but that was alright. He was confident that the answer would come to him. He wondered what twist of fate had allowed him this short time – normally he was in and out within seconds. But not this time. And he wished that it would be a quick job, but then, he never got his wishes did he? Otherwise he wouldn't be here at all.

Almost five years he'd been doing this. When he'd first been killed, it had been rough but eventually he'd started to embrace the notion of a fresh start. His slate was clean in a way that few other people ever got to experience and he got used to the idea. Allowed himself to get as close to happiness as he had tasted in years. He should have known that that was the point it would all fall apart.

Nine minutes. It was a hot night. He was glad that he could get away with a small hat and a blackened face – a ski mask would be stifling tonight. The trees rustled around him and he could hear a sentry approaching. He didn't move a muscle and the man passed without incident. He wouldn't be back for another four minutes and forty seconds.

It was the job that did it – wasn't work always the thing that broke him? He'd drifted for a while, heading further south, and taken a job in the remotest part of Venezuela that he could find. Days spent on the beach, fishing quietly with quiet men and occasionally taking the odd tourist out. They were always college kids, looking to experience 'life', looking for something off the beaten track. And it really was, there were usually only about five a year. He never knew how they managed to even find the village that was so tiny it could hardly even be described as that. But a few did and that was OK, because he was safe there, wasn't he?

Eight minutes. Two cars rolled up far below him. He watched as some burly men got out and strode into the building. One of them spoke to one of the uniformed guards at the front entrance, then he went inside too. They were too far away for him to hear their voices but that was alright. He didn't need to hear anything.

He'd known it was all over when the blond kid showed up, almost six years ago now. He'd been friendly and different to the few other tourists who fought their way through the jungle to get here. He really was looking for high jinks. He'd chartered the boat for a week and they'd talked, all day, all night the kid had talked, while the boat rocked on gentle seas and breeze ruffled their hair. He hadn't really seen the sea since that summer, but the faintest scent of salt always sent him back to those nights under the stars, cold beer in his hand and that kids voice that talked endlessly about the way he was travelling, the things he was doing while searching for 'experience' before returning to the States to go to law school. He had privately thought that he could tell the kid a thing or two about experience, but he knew better than that. Still, they chatted, and idled away the time while they fished and he'd enjoyed it. And so had the kid. He'd given him a good tip when he'd disembarked and said that he was going to tell his friends about this place, and about Rick, the quiet American who'd made his fishing trip so much fun. He'd tell his father too, because he had a stressful job and he might find his way down here one day.

'Is he a lawyer then, your father? Are you following in his footsteps?' He'd laughed as he asked and the kid had laughed back.

'Well kinda. He trained as a lawyer. But he's in politics now – he's the Secretary of Defence in fact. Took over from that guy Heller when President Logan didn't reinstate him. They had a disagreement about something personal, I'm not sure what. But I guess you don't keep up with news from home much down here.'

And his blood had run cold in his veins, even as he'd teased the kid about having a father who would do something as bloodthirsty as being a politician. He'd stood on the weather-beaten deck of his small boat and watched the kid head into the jungle, where he knew he was making his way back home, full of stories about his year of roughing it – plans already turning over in his head of which way to run. But he'd known even then that the game was up.

Seven minutes. There was activity in the house as guests mingled. He could see them through the brightly lit windows of the ballroom, drinking and chatting, awaiting the guest of honour. Just as he was.

He hadn't been surprised that night in Uruguay. He'd felt uneasy when he'd gone to bed in that stinking apartment but knew there was nothing he could do, he was in their sights. And he was tired of running anyway. He wanted to be back on his beach, at least he'd had peace there. He knew he had to try though, so he'd left the boat behind. He could still remember the way his door crashed open and woken him with a jolt, his eyes still hurt at the memory of the flash grenade that had disorientated him long enough for them to hustle him out of the door and into the back of the van that waited downstairs. He'd let them take him without a fight, it would be pointless to struggle wouldn't it?

And in the end, it hadn't been so bad. They didn't even have to torture him to get him to agree. They'd pulled him into a building, sat him in a cold metal chair and cut off the plastic ties around his bleeding wrists and he'd been ready to say no to them. But then he'd heard his name and he'd remembered who he was and that was pretty much all it took.

'Come and work for us Jack. Serve your country Bauer. We need you.'

And he'd said yes. He wouldn't have to run anymore. They'd protect him and it was only two jobs a year. He could spend the rest of the time doing whatever he wanted. He could go back to his beach if he wanted to.

But he didn't. His agreement tainted him and he knew he'd find no peace there anymore. A government paid assassin had no business pretending he was a fisherman after all. So he'd taken the security and felt better, knowing that he was at least doing what Bauer had always done. He'd serve and protect. And the targets were always people who deserved it, people who threatened the country he loved. And one day, they said, one day he'd be able to go home. They wouldn't use him forever. He'd be able to see Kimberly again.

'Just do this for us Jack, and one day you'll get it all back.'

Their whispers were laced with honey as they assaulted his tired ears and he'd let himself succumb. Deep in his soul, he knew they were lying – but the lie was so much sweeter than the reality he was living. But hadn't he always been an assassin anyway? This was no different.

Five and a half minutes. There were a few more cars, they pulled up right on schedule. He counted the people through his night vision scope, everyone he was expected to see was there and he knew everything was running like clockwork. Except it wasn't, because he still didn't know what he was going to do. But he had five minutes left to figure it out. He counted to twenty and made sure he was relaxed against the large tree trunk. The sentry passed by behind him, a mere twenty yards away, oblivious to the ghost that lay waiting in the blackness.

It had been working out fine. The job was what it was, the way it always had been. For eleven months of the year, he put it out of his head. Not that his life was normal, because he never allowed himself what other people had. No long-term commitments, no family. Any time he felt that something was getting serious, he broke it off. He never tried to kid himself that he would ever have what he had once had, and no one ever got close enough to scale the walls he built around himself. He couldn't allow himself to make the mistakes he'd made with Teri, no one else would suffer for what he had to do. So he'd had to break hearts and had his broken twice since then. Both times he couldn't offer an explanation and had ended up just disappearing into the night, a small note left behind on a kitchen table to explain that he wasn't what they thought he was and he had to leave before he hurt them any more. One was in Brazil, the other in Rome – because he was a free man now and was allowed to travel. His handlers even provided the transport because they didn't want his face on camera in a commercial airport. Unfailingly generous, his handlers. He wanted for nothing. Except…he wanted for everything. But they would never understand that.

Three and a half minutes. The advance team was arriving. It fanned out below him like a well co-ordinated dance troupe, every person secure in their routine. Almost pretty to watch. He ran a hand over the one piece of equipment he had and idly wondered once again. What to do? He had time. Couldn't escape, but there was always time to dream of it.

He hadn't expected what had happened six months ago. Maybe he'd got too used to his life. He travelled the world, but for obvious reasons, he stayed away from Asia. Australia was the closest he got and even then he felt he was too close. Quite a large Chinese presence in Australia. It had been fine though, but he still wished he gone with his instinct and changed his itinerary at the last minute. He'd had a sudden urge to see Paris, it had been a while since he'd been. Not for three years, since he'd stabbed the leader of a Second Wave cell in the back of the head in a hotel room one night. Business trip, obviously. But he'd ignored the desire to get a coffee and eat a croissant on the Champs-Elysées and given London as his destination instead. The car was waiting for him at the airfield, as it usually was – only this time, the driver ignored his instructions to take him to Trafalgar Square and leave him off so he could disappear into the crowds. No, this time he was driven to a warehouse down by the Thames and the driver was unmoved to his desperate shouts, sitting behind bullet-proof, sound-proof glass, stoic and uncaring.

They'd drugged him to calm him down. Noticed that there were faint needle marks on his arms and correctly surmised that desperation had led him down a familiar route. They'd grilled him about it, when he was still confused and disorientated and it hadn't taken long for him to admit that he only did it because it was something that he could connect with Bauer. He wasn't as bad as he had once been – but he needed the familiarity. He could remember the way the man in front of him had smiled at an unseen colleague. They knew they had him.

He cringed at the memory of that painful forty-eight hours. He hadn't been badly addicted but it still hurt to come off it. And all the time, he hadn't known who these people were or what they wanted with him. They weren't like the others, the ones who'd called him Jack and had only asked him to carry on his life's work. No – these ones were different. But they wouldn't talk to him until he was 'in his right mind,' as they put it – so he was locked in a cell. A doctor checked on him and made him comfortable, but it had still hurt. Especially as he couldn't see any reason to be clean again. He was never clean was he? Even without drugs, his soul was dirty.

Two minutes. Security was in place. They'd all arrived and were just waiting. Just like he was. He could see the assorted guests, they weren't mingling so freely now. Their attention was focused on the main entrance, awaiting the announcement. He could feel the tension that knotted in the pit of his stomach and threatened to seep into his muscles, he fought it. Had to stay relaxed. His mind drifted from the task at hand.

They hadn't been rough. They'd been almost reasonable. Pointed out to him that he was obviously desperate to go home, otherwise why bother doing i _anything_ /i that connected him to the person he'd once been. Especially something like drugs. They said it showed that he didn't feel his life had meaning, that he didn't care if he died or not. They were right too and they knew it. He didn't have to say it to them and they didn't make him. So when he was tired and his body was spent, they'd brought him into a small room that had a bare table. And they'd showed him photographs. Kim crying at his funeral, huddled into Chase's body. The camera had nicely picked out the wetness on his son-in-laws face as the tears shone in the sunshine. Kim breaking down as the military bugler sounded the Last Post by his graveside. The flag being handed to Chase because she couldn't bear to take it. Palmer resting a hand on her shoulder and offering empty condolences as she cried.

Kim moving house. Kim crying at the kitchen table. Kim pregnant. Kim and her son, who was called Jack. Kim rocking him to sleep. Pregnant again. A daughter this time. He wasn't surprised that she had named her Teresa – the person placing the photos on the table wasn't either.

'She isn't moving on, you can see that can't you? She's stuck in the past. She needs you back.'

He had cried and it had hurt worse than any physical torture they could inflict. He screamed at them – why are you doing this? What am I supposed to do about it? They'd let him scream, continued to torture him until they felt he could take no more, telling him of every detail he'd missed out on, all the happiness his friends had, how life was going on without him – except for Kim's because she was dying in a prison he had made for her. They didn't use his name – he was still Rick to them. And he'd asked, weakly…what am I supposed to do?

One minute to go. The driveway up to the house was long, and he could see the cars leave the road two miles away and start up it. They'd travel the mile at high speed, because it was exposed and would arrive in just under a minute. It would take ten seconds until the guy was where he wanted him. There could be no mistake with the timing.

They'd told him what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to go back to his life. It wouldn't be the same obviously, but he'd be in America and he'd have his name back. Kim would be told and he could see her whenever he wanted. Just retire, that's all you have to do when you get home. No more work – enjoy your family. You'll be Jack again. You just have to do this one thing for us…

Another photograph had been placed on the table. He stared at it for a long minute before closing his eyes. He could remember the weight of his eyelids and the way fat tears had forced their way out from under them, thick and salty as they made their slow way down his hollowed cheeks.

'And if I don't?'

The voice had been soft, but so firm. They weren't lying. 'We'll release her from her prison. She might even welcome death, Rick. She's killing herself inside at the moment anyway – the same way you are.'

'Why don't you just kill me?'

'Because we need you to do this. And you know you're going to say yes. You'll get everything back if you do. And if you don't, you lose the one thing you care about. For good. She'll be dead and you'll be rotting in a Chinese prison by the end of the week.'

The thought was unbearable. He couldn't let them do it to her. He'd just started thinking about the other alternative when it was taken away.

'And don't even think about falling on your own sword. Because if you do, we'll kill her anyway.'

He'd stared up at cold green eyes.

'You know we'll kill her anyway…'

Thirty seconds. The leading cars had pulled past the entrance and were slowing to a stop, the rest catching up. Right on schedule. He readied himself, still not knowing if he could go through with this. The voice of that unknown man, floating in his ear, telling him that Kim was going to die if he said no. Knowing that even now, there were people outside her house, waiting to move in if the shot didn't ring out on time. He felt the nausea in his stomach and fought it down, concentrated on his breathing. And it was so dark, so dark…he felt like he was floating in a black void and nothing made sense and there was no escape.

He'd asked why. Why do this? The answer was obvious of course – they wanted to decide who would be in charge. It was all politics. They'd almost made a fatal mistake. They tried to tell him that he should be pleased to have this opportunity, seeing as the man had created his situation in the first place. They didn't understand when he went beserk and tried to attack the cold man that stood over him, the one with the green eyes and menacing voice. They'd sedated him and puzzled over his response. And a day later, when he'd woken up and was restrained on his narrow bed, they asked him what the problem was. What had they said wrong? And he'd had to explain to them, in an icy tone, that after a lifetime of protecting his country, they couldn't ask him to be happy about doing this. No matter what he thought of the man personally, the office was sacred and he didn't think he could…

They'd frowned and looked at each other, then left him. And when they came back, they still didn't understand. But they didn't have to – because the bottom line was, if he didn't, Kim was dead. If he killed himself, Kim was dead. And they knew he didn't care about this bit but incidentally, he'd be tortured to death in a Chinese prison.

He'd stared at the ceiling. And the man had crouched next to him and whispered,

'We call you Rick because that's your name. But do this, and you'll be Jack again.'

He'd been left alone to think it over. He didn't try to explain to them that if he did this, he'd never be able to be Jack again. No matter how long he lived.

But they had Kim in the palm of their hand. And he couldn't, _couldn't_ let them crush her.

Ten seconds. The doors were opening. He closed his eyes while counting the seconds down. His hands were ready. He had been right – the decision was made for him. She filled his head and the thought of losing her made him the world spin. So…yes, he would do this. Because Bauer had been dead for a long time anyway. It wouldn't matter that now, he could never come back.

Five seconds. The head was in the sights. He noted with dispassion that the man looked older, was greyer than he had been last time they met in Washington D.C, when he still worked for Heller.

Four seconds. He was shaking hands with the Ambassador and smiling that loose smile.

Three seconds. His wife was behind him. She looked very pretty and he tried not to think of the blood that would spray onto her face.

Two seconds. President Charles Logan…

…

…

_I'm sorry._


End file.
